


25 Minutes

by AeeDee



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick and Bruce play a game. Alfred would rather not know the details.</p><p>In regards to timeline, this one's not specific.  Dick's old enough to be Nightwing, but that's it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	25 Minutes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】25 Minutes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6098815) by [AeeDee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee), [Sixhalfmk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixhalfmk/pseuds/Sixhalfmk)



25 minutes, and 17 seconds. He stares at the distant clock on the dresser with tired eyes, half-closed and unfocused. The timer’s been counting up steadily, reminding him of how agonizingly _slow_ time progresses.

30 minutes. He needs to make it to 30 minutes. But considering that he’s still trapped in minute 25—25 minutes and 45 seconds now—he knows those remaining few will feel near-eternal.

He sighs inwardly and hangs his head, wincing from the strain of the rope tugging back at the corners of his mouth. He looks up again to ease the tension, his anxious tongue flicking out to taste its coarse texture, its taste like dried grass and the faint residue of sweat. His eyes wander across the room; sunlight spilling in through grandiose windows, windows that seem so high from his current vantage point, where he sits tucked against the far corner, back to the wall, legs idly sprawled against the floor.

27 minutes. He idly fidgets, stretching his back slightly, frowning as he starts to notice an inch he can’t scratch, the teasing friction of a loop of rope digging in a tad too tight between his fingers. He feels the blood rushing away, as he flexes his hands and realizes that one of them is going numb.

27 minutes and 35 seconds. _Come on…_

He leans back, resting his head against the wall; he swallows idly, and with it, a scratchy taste that goes down slowly. He feels his own spit gathering at the corners of his lips, threatening to drip. He purses his mouth and bites down to keep some dignity, but that’s easier said than done when you’re gagged as tight as he is. He wants to cough when he feels his teeth digging into the rope, as it’s giving way and filling his mouth with rough and dry shreds as it unravels.

_Come on, Bruce._

28 minutes and 15 seconds.

A slight shuffling of footsteps just on the other side of the wall. He turns towards the sound.

A turn of the door handle, and it opens. Dick’s eyes focus in, and he pauses; feels himself inadvertently stiffening up.

 _Bruce, you jerk._ He knew this was his fault. Somehow.

Because the man that walked into the room was not Bruce. He was decidedly not Bruce, and he was nothing but alarmed.

With shaky hands, Alfred hurried to set the tray he was carrying down onto the nearest table, as he rushed over, his voice a concerned, “Master Richard,” exclamation with barely any sound.

_Bruce, you ass._

With gloved hands, Alfred rushes to grab at the rope in Dick’s mouth, as he attempts to shake his head at the man. But Alfred doesn’t stop until he slides the rope out, seeming to recoil away from it. Dick can’t blame him; he knows it must be disgusting by now, feeling how damp it is when it falls against his neck, soaked with his spit and likely carrying an equally uncomfortable scent.

“Master Richard,” Alfred does manage some self-restraint, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Dick speaks, but it hurts to talk. It’s difficult to talk, because his entire jaw is sore, his tongue feels like sandpaper and he wants to choke every time he takes in air. So instead he nods to make sure his point gets across, as he tries again, this time with a little more volume, “I’m okay.”

“Are you certain-” Alfred is increasingly more perplexed than concerned.

“Yes,” Dick nods, and even forces a smile, as he allows his eyes to open wider and light up, to the best of his ability, “Totally fine.”

It’s not a complete lie. Disregarding how exhausted he feels, but it’s not a lie.

Alfred hesitantly pauses, unsure of what to do.

Dick glances at the clock. _Shit._ 29 minutes and 45 seconds. “Um,” he frowns, feeling more of a sense of urgency than he wants to reveal, “Can you put it back in.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Put it back in?” he repeats, allowing his smile to linger for longer than is necessary.

“If you can assure me that you’re alright-”

“Yes,” he nods quickly, hoping to hurry him along.

“Very well,” and those gloved fingers are gently tucking the rope back into his mouth, as Dick bites down, teeth settling back into the grooves they defined earlier. Alfred is so gentle it almost _hurts_ ; Dick has a moment of mourning the fierceness with which Bruce had gagged him earlier. Bruce was so rough; Bruce had almost choked him when he tied that knot.

Dick looks at Alfred with the kindest expression he can manage, as the man hastily murmurs, “Master Bruce wanted… you to enjoy these,” as he gestures to the tray. “I.. will inform him of the.. current situation,” before he bows his head and retreats through the door, closing it behind him politely.

31 minutes and 29 seconds.

_Bruce, you asshole._

Dick growls from behind the rope, a slow sigh of frustration. Food he could not eat, food the man knew he could not, would not eat, and the decision to run late on purpose, even delivering a clever distraction.

He hates the man sometimes. He really does.

-

When Alfred steps into the main room, Bruce is calmly relaxing on the couch, flipping through a printed report. An ink pen balanced between two fingers, he pauses to circle a number, scribbling a notation beside it as his butler calmly approaches, his steps cautious and slow.

“Master Bruce,” his voice polite as always, but his face holding an expression of doubtful concern.

When Bruce looks at him, he notices it immediately; but he doesn’t react. “Yes, Alfred.”

“Master Richard…” Alfred trails off.

Bruce waits, as he sets down the paperwork, to give the man his full attention.

“He appeared to be in some distress,” he emphasizes. He waits for a response.

Bruce looks back at him, cautious. He waits for further elaboration.

Alfred clears his throat, “He was bound with _rope_ , sir.”

“Oh,” Bruce acknowledges, his voice deadpanned, “Yes.”

Alfred’s voice is small and hesitant. “Bruce?”

“It’s just a game, Alfred,” Bruce calmly states, as he turns his attention back to his paperwork. “He’s just playing around.”

“I… understand.” But he really doesn’t.

Sometimes he doesn’t understand a _damn_ thing that goes on in this house.

-

38 minutes.

_Bruce, when you get in here…_

38 minutes and 15 seconds.

_I’m going to kick your ass._

The door.

With a creak, it opens. Differently this time. Suddenly. Quickly. With a sense of urgency. It closes with a heavy sound, a hollow sound that echoes through the room.

Bruce.

He’s adjusting his tie as he strolls over, loosening it a tad as he’s kneeling down, shiny boots digging into the carpet beside Dick’s closest thigh, as he peers into his exhausted face, half-lidded eyes that stare back at him.

When Bruce speaks, his voice is neutral and stoic, “Are you doing alright.”

Dick attempts a grin, but with his lips tucked behind a rope, it doesn’t communicate. So he just nods; but only once. It’s important to look eager and responsive. But not too eager. Not too thrilled. But not upset. Because he’s not. He’s just…

Bruce’s firm hands at his jaw, fingers pressing into the faint trace of drool that’s leaked from his mouth. A pause. Bruce leans in, coarse tongue running along the side of his face, starting from his jaw. Dick starts to shake; his face grows hot. Bruce’s tongue at the corner of his lips, where the rope meets flesh. The blush on his face is spreading; it’s burning. Bruce’s fingers sliding beneath the rope, pulling it back, winding it out of his mouth. Dick gasps into a kiss; Bruce’s tongue in his mouth, his tongue’s in his mouth as they pant at each other, exchanging hot breaths like air.

A hand at his groin; fingers pressing against his swollen cock, straining beneath jeans that are coarse and uncomfortable. Fingers that instinctively know where it is; fingers that massage its length, pushing the weight of denim against hot and sensitive skin. Dick gives a small moan, that escapes as little more than a distorted sigh.

Those fingers pause; Bruce pulls back, detaching their wet mouths as he gives him a cold look. “You’re getting a bit worked up, Dick.”

“I… I know,” he murmurs, his eyes pleading, because he _knows_ what’s about to happen.

Bruce is still in the game.

Fingers rushing to grab hold of the rope, pulling it back up, the scratchy texture clawing at his face, finely cutting into his skin; the rope’s aggressively pushed back into his mouth, shoved between his teeth as he bites down, with a small whine of distress.

He’s not upset. Not very. But he’s hard, and that makes him impatient.

Bruce rises to his feet, staring down at him with a reserved pity, like he’s some helpless animal. He lifts a foot, and gently presses it over his groin, the heel of his boot flat against his swollen member. His voice is solemn and terse, “Try to control yourself.”

With not a single word more, he turns and leaves. He turns, and walks right out of the room.

The tray of food is still on the distant table; Dick’s sure it’s grown cold by now.

_Bruce._

He fidgets idly, with a slow sigh trapped inside his mouth.

_You are such an ass._

-

85 minutes and 15 seconds. He’s drifting in and out of sleep. He hears sounds from around the house, but can’t place where any of them are from. Footsteps that appear to get closer, but never actually arrive. Doors that are not the one to this room, opening, closing. Opening, closing.

89 minutes and-

-

He comes to with a confusing blur of sensation. The rope’s in his mouth, and then. Rope’s gone, and there’s lips pressed against his, lips forceful and firm, pressing down with an aggression that startles him into consciousness, as a strong hand winds into his hair, painfully grabbing hold of the strands and tugging his head back. The kiss deepens; a tongue forces its way inside, as he opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling, adjusting his vision as a strong hand grabs hold of his arm, and then his shoulder, as if it’s not sure where to rest.

And when the kiss breaks, he’s able to glance down, head rolling back up to see Bruce kneeling before him, his face darkened by shadows in the dim room. The sun’s going down. But when they meet eyes, Dick can still read the intent expression on his face; he recognizes that subtle frown, and the way his eyes are looking straight ahead, as if they’re staring through him.

When Bruce wants Dick, he views him as something more than an object of lust. He’s not just a lover. He’s not just a ward. He’s not just a person, even. Dick is something that defies his definitions. Dick is something that defies what he understands.

He only comprehends that he wants him; whatever he is. Everything he is.

So when Bruce stares at him in that dark room, with that face that’s suspended in time, his lips at pause, his breathing shallow, his eyes heavy and his gaze slowly roaming the contours of Dick’s body…

Dick stares up at him with a look of desperation. A want that slowly grows more wild and uneasy, his eyes widening, his lips parted, his breathing in a broken and erratic rush and his heart racing. When Bruce places a hand on his shoulder, Dick isn’t thinking about romance. He isn’t thinking about an embrace, a compliment, a kiss.

Dick is thinking that he wants to ravage him. He wants to ravage him, and be ravaged. Borderline assaulted. Pushed around, penetrated, fucked so hard he cries out loud. He wants to moan and yell and whimper and whine and cry and feel no shame because that is how damn _good_ it will feel.

When Bruce looks at him like that, Dick doesn’t want to be one of Bruce’s lovers.

He wants to be his pet.

He wants to be the animal in his bed.

-

He’s thrown onto the bed with aggressive hands, hands that are calloused and hot, that shove him onto the bed and refuse to relent in force or strength, pushing hard enough to leave bruises in their wake. Bruises in the shape of fingertips, scattered across his pale shoulders as those hands relocate to his legs, lifting beneath his thighs and hooking them up past the man’s hips, his knees bending up towards his chest.

Dick’s barely breathing. He’s barely breathing, because he knows what this means.

_Bruce._

The man scrambles, rushing to open a small container, flipping open the lid as Dick catches the scent in the air. He recognizes it, and he licks his lips in anticipation. For the first time he notices how cut-up they are, but that’s okay. They’ll heal.

When Bruce’s fingers slide into his ass, fingers wet and coated with lubricant that smells like flowers, Dick feels himself getting hard, rock hard like it’s second nature. His body knows what’s going to happen. His body knows how to respond.

It’s not long before he throws his head back, closing his eyes with a moan as those fingers push in deeper, deeper as they make small circles inside him, circles that are designed to do more than get him wet. Circles that stimulate, that prod and touch and tease his insides. He starts to flinch. He starts to whine.

Hands still bound with rope behind his back, the more he writhes, the more he feels them straining against it. Any other time, he’d be touching himself already. Any other time.

And when those fingers pull back and slide out, Bruce is already lubing up his cock with his other hand. He wastes no time. The instant those fingers leave his ass, Dick feels empty for only a second before Bruce is pushing himself in, the head of his cock round and hard, as Dick winces from the slight strain. There’s always a strain. There’s always a stretch. A moment where the body does not want to give.

But then he remembers that he’s about to be fucked. He’s about to be fucked by _him_ , and that’s the incentive his body needs to relax and let the man inside.

_Bruce…_

Dick never gets tired of the way it feels. Bruce’s cock is swollen and hard and Dick feels a spark the instant he makes contact with his prostate, feels it hit and push just a bit deeper, just a bit more, slow and agonizing, in the precise way that makes Dick bite his lip to suppress a moan.

And it’s not long before one of Bruce’s hands is at his mouth, fingers that taste like lube, lube and sweat. They slip their way inside, as he tastes the warm flesh, wrapping his tongue around one that’s nearing the back of his throat. Bruce starts thrusting down below; Dick starts making love to that hand, chewing on the delicate skin between the fingers, stroking the bones with his tongue, sucking on the tips and opening his mouth just a bit more when Bruce slides them in just a bit more, further back inside, so far he almost gags.

Dick’s eyes are closing; he starts to rock his hips with each thrust. He doesn’t think about it. There’s no need. Because his body knows precisely how to react. His body knows what to do, and his timing is perfect.

He pants against Bruce’s hand, pants and gasps as he’s fucked so hard, so hard, so _good_ he almost can’t stand it. Except that his own cock is stiff and throbbing and it _hurts_ and it needs attention he cannot give. He can’t talk with fingers in his mouth, he can’t move being fucked the way he is, and he may be an acrobat but he’s no escape artist, and Bruce tied the damn knot at his wrists so _fucking_ tight.

He tries to send a message; he tries to send Bruce a look, frowning in desperation, staring at him intently, something, _anything_ out of the ordinary. But when he looks over at the man, his gaze is unfocused; he’s lost admiring the grooves of Dick’s body, admiring the contours of his tensing muscles, the way his hips roll and buckle every time he pushes in. But at the center of that fascination is-

Dick’s cock, a firm hand wrapping around him as he gasps, coughing a little as he forgets his mouth is occupied; and when Bruce removes said hand, relocating its grasp to hold Dick steady, pinning him at the waist, Dick starts to pant out loud, a whimper that becomes an _Ah_ , an _Ah_ that becomes an _Ugh_ , an _Ugh_ that becomes a broken moan, low and resonating deep inside his chest.

He starts to tremble. He starts to shake. He’s feeling heat building inside him, he’s feeling rough fingers twisting at the head of his aching cock, he’s feeling eight inches thrusting into his ass and he’s rocking his hips and hoping he doesn’t look too overwhelmed.

His jaw slack, his lips parted as he pants out loud. His eyes glossed over, drifting to the ceiling as he’s fucked, fucked so hard and jacked off at a rhythm that matches each thrust.

_Bruce._

No one could ever accuse Bruce of not being a skilled lover. Not if you were to ask Dick Grayson.

But if you asked anyone else that had shared Bruce’s bed, they would say the same thing. They each had the same complaint: _he thinks more of himself than others._

When Bruce invites this man into his bed, even when it involves binding him, tying him up, teasing him for a while and throwing him into it with force-

Bruce thinks about the needs of Dick Grayson.

Dick’s voice is erotic when he moans, his high pitch cut-up and frail, like he’s in pain. Music to Bruce’s ears; it makes him move just a little bit faster.

Just a little faster; fast enough. Because he knows the exact rate that gets Dick hard. And he knows what pace will make him come, come so hard he almost screams.

_Bruce._

Bruce never gets tired of fucking Dick. Never. He never gets tired of his body writhing and tensing beneath him, his face as it changes through different stages of pleasure. The look he gives him, when he gasps with an open mouth, the flicker of his tongue inside, a tongue he appreciates the taste of.

He leans down to kiss him, just for one special moment in time, one instant when they’re both serene and behaving like lovers, Dick’s eyes closed and his jaw relaxed as Bruce’s tongue caresses his own, lips crushing together as they make love to each other’s mouths.

All the while Bruce continues to thrust, as best he can; he has to move slower but that’s alright, because he knows he can make Dick come this way, too. It’s a little different and it won’t end in a scream, but he’s sure to guarantee a heavy moan. The kind of moan that’s more sensual than frenzied, sensual and panted as a breath of hot air and muffled sound against his lover’s mouth.

And that’s exactly what he gets. Dick isn’t coming yet, but he’s on the edge, rocking his hips slowly, so slowly it hurts, with one moan after another.

_Bruce, I..._

Bruce is focusing intently on Dick’s swollen cock, but at this point it’s redundant. When he rocks him like this, nice and slow like this, Dick doesn’t need the stimulation there. So even as he continues to stroke him, he lets his hand relax; he lets his twists and pumps slow down, slow to the speed that makes Dick the most excited, slow to the gentle speed that makes him feel like a lover, like a precious someone beneath him.

But Dick has always been a precious someone.

Even when he’s-

He’s moaning Bruce’s name, his voice a startled cry into Bruce’s ear as the man relocates both hands and pushes down onto his hips, his gently rocking hips, pushes down right on the bone where it hurts, where it’s sensitive, where it will bruise and the bruises will linger for days. And Dick will be able to see them when he undresses; he’ll be able to see them when he bathes himself. He’ll see them every time he gets out of bed in the morning, and stands before his mirror, and-

Bruce is clawing at his skin, eliciting another moan from his startled lover as he draws blood. He claws in with all the strength he has, feeling the blood pool around the tips of his fingers, feeling Dick’s body tensing as he continues to thrust in, slowly, slowly-

He kisses the boy one more time, kisses him like he means it, and when Dick cries his name against his mouth, a muffled sound against his lips, Bruce feels the familiar sensation of ejaculating spilling against his stomach. Dick’s heavy breathing, his open-mouth panting as Bruce leans back, just back slightly enough to enjoy the view of his flustered boy beneath him, eyes wild and glossy, bottom lip trembling as he relaxes and comes down from an orgasm.

When Bruce leans back, feeling the cum drying on his stomach—along with some drops on his upper chest—Dick manages a quiet murmur, “Please untie me.”

“Your hands,” he knows.

“Yes,” Dick’s voice breathy and desperate. Even though he’s already come…

Bruce leans in for a moment, hovering above him as he rests his weight on his arms and winds his hands behind Dick’s back, the heat radiating from his body a ridiculously strong turn-on—in a moment like this, the boy radiates pheromones—as he works quickly and efficiently, remembering exactly how he tied that knot, remembering exactly how he wound the rope between those fingers.

When Bruce resumes his position above him, and Dick’s hands are free, he raises them out in front of him; Bruce is stunned at their appearance. Slightly discolored and cut-up with small dashes and lines of red, even Dick seems alarmed for a moment, before settling down with a small grin on his face. Bruce continues to fuck him, thrusting inside as Dick maintains that gentle smile, his eyelids falling heavy as he reaches up to rest his hands on the man’s shoulders. Bruce gives him a curious look, uncertain of his intentions; but he trusts him. He knows too much to not trust him.

But he also knew better than to get too complacent. Dick is an acrobat; Dick is a _strong_ acrobat, and it push came to shove, he could deliver a healthy dose of pain. Even while Bruce was submerged inside him, if Dick genuinely wanted, he could find a way to do some damage. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d marked him with bruises, scratches, welts and even a few sprained joints.

But if there is any certain fact about Dick, it’s that he’s unpredictable. Sometimes he wants to hurt. Sometimes he wants to see Bruce bleed.

But sometimes he just…

He winds his arms around the man’s shoulders, whispering in between the thrusts, between their mutual gasps for breath and the rhythmic rocking of his body, “Bruce,” his voice fragile and warm, his arms holding onto him so tight, so tightly, his hands stroking the warm flesh beneath them, smoothing across Bruce’s back like he adores every square inch of it. His face at rest, his expression peaceful and blissfully content-

“Bruce, I love you.”

Sometimes, that’s all he needs to come; to come so hard he almost cries out loud. To come so hard he moans his name, this man who never says anything at all, this man who never says a damn word in bed unless it’s a question or a command, to moan his lover’s name like it was a curse.

A beautiful curse; a curse that bound him to this boy forever.

He didn’t respond to his statement. But as he calmed himself and prepared to remove himself from his partner, he leaned down and gave him a serene kiss, a kiss that could only show a fraction of his affection as he settled down, indulging in the shared warmth of their bodies, bathing in the heat radiating from Dick, in the gentle caress of those hands on his back, in the rhythm of his slow breathing and the overwhelming sensation of affection, of caring, of wanting, of needing, of having, of-

The overwhelming sensation of love.

And when Bruce murmurs another, “Dick,” as a faint sigh, the heavy look in his eyes communicates the rest.

Bruce can’t say the L-word.

But that doesn’t mean Dick can’t feel it.

With a hand to the man’s face; a gentle tracing of his jaw, and a small kiss to the edge of his lips. “I know.”


End file.
